


Every Other Night She Dreams

by ConquisteloCait



Category: Sailor Moon - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConquisteloCait/pseuds/ConquisteloCait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Haruka accepted her destiny, Michiru worked alone. Most nights she could take it. Often, at the end of her day, she would dream of the Silence. Sometimes she dreamed of something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Other Night She Dreams

Every other night, she dreams of the sea.

            If she is lucky, the dreams are warm and shapeless and encompass her entirely. She wakes up feeling as if she has resurfaced. Her day is mellow and soft.

            If she is not, she dreams of aquariums, or a wide, dark expanse below. Everything is dimly lit, and there are monstrous shapes in the water. Sometimes they are rotten. They are always still alive.

            The dreams in the middle frighten her most.

            The dreams in the middle are dangerously alluring. She begins, most often, at night. There is a full moon reflecting on the waves, dappling them with scattered white light. Everything else is a sinful dark blue.

            It is a warm night. She is naked, and her body is perfect – soft curves and warm, ample skin. Her hair is long and she revels in it brushing her back.

            The first steps are cool, but never cold. The water is refreshing, no more than a tepid bath. It swirls around her ankles and seafoam licks her skin.

            She moves with unnatural grace, one foot at a time, never rushing. Every step she takes she pauses, lets her feet sink into the sediments until the waves beckon her out. She only ever moves with the receding of the tide so that she feels welcomed, wanted, needed, content.

            When it slithers between her thighs, she sucks in a breath. The temperature, no matter how warm, makes the skin of her belly twitch.

            Soon it is at her shoulders. She could lift her feet and swim, but she enjoys the sinking as she meets the drop off, the inertia of water swirling across her shoulders and stealing away the eddies of her hair, making the strands dance and drag.

            Logically, she could go back if she tried. But in the dream this is not an option. She never wanted it to be.

            The suddenness of the drop off follows dream-time; She is above water, and then she is not. The sandy floor is gone and she is floating, suspended, in saltwater and starlight. She blows her breath out in a stream of eager bubbles, watches them giggle and shiver their way to the surface. Here, she can see the moon – an Impressionist vision of light that scatters and reassembles through the gloom. Beams of moonlight still reach through the water like searchlights, until she has sunk so far that they no longer penetrate the dark. It is a soothing dark, nothing to be frightened of - a deep, rich, nighttime blue.

            Now she is outside of her own body, witnessing it acquiesce. She can both feel and see the slowing of her limbs, the sleepiness in her lungs. For a moment she is illuminated – a white, glow-dappled thing against an ancient tableau of dark. She is perfect and primal. She is the most powerful thing in the world.

            And then the water rushes in and embraces her, within and without. She becomes a part of it, and all that is her disassembles. She surrenders herself to the sea, with no second thoughts for what she might be leaving behind. In the dream, they don’t even touch her.

            She has never been more at peace.

 

            She wakes up sweating. It is a flashfright struggle – like clawing her way up from being buried alive under millions of layers of sand. Her lungs feel full and heavy, and she coughs.

            She is not frightened of the dream. She knows she isn’t likely to drown.

            _That_ is what frightens her, and she goes through her day in a fog with a hollow ringing in her ears…because in the secret sweetness of sleep, just before she jolts, she knows something with perfect, alarming alacrity:

            She would walk in. And she does not care if she comes back.

           

           


End file.
